


Know the Rules

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bargaining, Edging, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rules
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 09:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11825535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Who'd been dead set on keeping Prompto from getting distracted during combat, after he got hurt one time too many? Noct.Who'd suggested the consequences? Noct.Who'd been dumb enough to think it was sexy instead of really, really stupid? Prompto.





	Know the Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaciart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaciart/gifts).



> I just had to write something for [this masterpiece](http://kacir18.tumblr.com/post/163961718678/elitenero-promnis-discipline-if-thats) by the incredibly talented Kaciart. :D

It's the best damn selfie Prompto's taken since Noct had that dumb idea of his.

He's completely in the frame, and his smile's crooked and bright. He's not making a weird face, and the lighting's kind of fantastic; it's the golden afternoon glow you get, just before sunset.

But the real prize? The real prize is the dread behemoth.

It's right there behind him, all curling horns and bared fangs. Its mouth is open to scream its rage, and Prompto's ears are still ringing from that roar; he'd felt it in his lungs, the way you do with big drums in a marching band.

He'd been scared out of his mind, snapping that shot. But some things? Some things you take chances for.

This is definitely, definitely one of them.

Prompto's so busy admiring his own work that he doesn't even hear it when Iggy creeps up behind him. His first clue that he has an audience looking over his shoulder at the camera screen is a faint popping sound.

And Prompto – Prompto knows that sound anywhere, by now.

It creeps into his dreams at night. He spends all day waiting for it, not sure whether the anticipation is dread or excitement. It's buried in his subconscious so deep you'd need twenty guys with shovels just to dig it up.

That little popping sound is the noise the cap to the lube makes, and Prompto turns, breath caught in his throat, even though he knows damn well what's waiting for him.

Sure enough, there's Ignis, looking unruffled and put-together, holding onto the bottle like it's regular, everyday camping equipment. There's Ignis, with his serious-business face, looking at Prompto with a calm sort of expectation.

"Iggy, noooo," says Prompto.

He knows he's whining. He's aware, in a periphery, background sort of way that Noct and Gladio are watching him do it, smug smiles on their stupid smug faces.

They're both jerks. And Noct – Noct is a godsdamn traitor. This is all his fault.

Who'd been dead set on keeping Prompto from getting distracted during combat, after he got hurt one time too many? Noct.

Who'd suggested the consequences? Noct.

Who'd been dumb enough to think it was sexy instead of really, really stupid? Prompto.

So now here he is, a month out, regretting every choice he's ever made.

And Ignis, as usual, is absolutely immune to his pleas. He just sits down in his camp chair, expectant, and says, "It will be better for the both of us if you don't drag this out."

Prompto looks at him. He looks down at the camera. He bites at his lower lip, and he presses the off button, and he sets his camera aside.

His fingers tremble when he undoes the button on his jeans.

Gods – they haven't even started and Prompto's probably already bright red. His face feels flushed, too hot, and the burn of humiliation sweeps through him, making him fight to resist the urge to squirm. Gladio and Noct circle around like sharks keeping an eye on a dying whale. They drift over to sit down in their own chairs, blatantly interested.

Prompto takes a deep breath, and he pulls down the zipper on his jeans. He glances at Iggy, one last-ditch, desperate attempt to garner some pity.

But no: that expression is blank and merciless.

So Prompto steels himself. He steps forward, and he lies, stomach down, across Ignis' lap.

Oh, Astrals. This is going to be a rough one. Not a hand on him yet, and he's already hard.

Ignis' fingers ease down the back of Prompto jeans, then the back of his underwear. He hears the inevitable squelch of the lube – is intimately aware of the cool breeze on his suddenly-exposed ass.

His erection's pressing up against Ignis' thigh through the fabric of his own underwear, and the pressure is already killing him. If he rocked forward, just a little, he could get some friction.

It would be amazing.

It would make everything worse.

So Prompto stays still, and he waits – shivers again, a bit harder, when he feels Ignis' index finger, smooth and slender, brush against the opening. The lube is cold on his overheated skin, and the temperature difference makes him shift slightly, despite his best efforts.

He was right. The friction _is_ amazing.

Prompto bites his lip and waits for it – relishes the gentle inward press and the slight stretch as Ignis' finger creeps further in. He doesn't take his time, and Prompto should be grateful for that, at least; as soon as he's accustomed to the width of one, the lube sounds again, and another eases in.

It's not quite enough, but Prompto knows damn well this will be all he's getting.

His cock's throbbing already, trapped between his own body and Ignis' thigh. He's pretty sure he's starting to make a wet spot in his underwear, and he wishes that Iggy'd had a little mercy and pulled them down in the front a bit, too.

But no, he's stuck with that extra, added bit of pressure. He's stuck with the way the fabric rubs when he starts to fidget, and hell if that doesn't make it a thousand times worse.

Gladio and Noct are hard already, too, prominent bulges in their pants on display for the world to see. But they've got the freedom to undo their zippers – to take their erections in hand and start to stroke – and they do, the bastards.

"You guys _suck_ ," says Prompto. "You know that, right?"

"You wish," says Noct, a slanted smirk creeping onto his lips.

Prompto opens his mouth to retort, but Ignis says, "Not another word." He says it clipped and intent, businesslike, and Prompto knows better than to test him when he's using a tone like that. His mouth snaps shut on the words before he can give them voice.

Ignis' fingers dig deeper and twist; they curve in just the right way, and they hit that spot inside him that always makes Prompto see stars.

Prompto hisses a breath in through his nose. You've got this, he tells himself. You'll totally get through it. That picture was so, so worth it.

Ten minutes in, he's panting and squirming and not quite so sure anymore. Ignis has to set a hand on the curve of his back to keep him still. The other hand keeps moving, an inexorable shift and press. He hasn't let up on that spot, and it's – it's driving Prompto a little crazy. It's so _good_ , mind-melting pleasure that races up his spine and sets every nerve on fire.

Noct and Gladio are really going to town now, too – hands pulling hard and fast, the way Prompto loves it, when he's on the receiving end. They really _are_ jerks.

He closes his eyes to try and block them out – keens softly, when Ignis prods again, exactly the right pressure.

Gods, it feels amazing. Ignis is as good at this as he is at everything; he can't ever just learn a skill by halves. He knows exactly where to touch, and how often, and how hard. And he's unrelenting, like a godsdamned machine.

Prompto whines, and bucks, and Ignis' hand presses down on his back harder still.

He knows for sure he's dripping into his underwear, now. He's about thirty seconds from going off like a firecracker, and gods, that sounds incredible. What he wouldn't give for Ignis to take this one step further – to grab hold of his cock and jerk it the same way Noct and Gladio are going at theirs.

His toes curl in his boots; his back arches, and he tries, without meaning to, to rock back against Ignis' fingers. The muscles in his thighs are drawn up tight, outright shaking. The heat baking through him is unbearable.

He's not sure the picture was worth it, anymore. He's not sure anything would be worth it.

Prompto squeezes his eyes tighter shut. He needs to bite down on something, or he's going to lose his mind. He scrabbles for something, for anything – finds his own wrist band and sets his teeth into it, clenching down.

Ignis nudges up against his prostate again, just one more time – just right.

That's – that's almost it. He's hurtling toward the edge like a runaway train, every inch of him intent on relieving the tension churning through him.

And Ignis, with his always-perfect timing, pulls out.

Prompto's still teetering there on the edge when the smack on his ass nearly sends him over.

"Off with you," says Ignis. "You know the rules."

He does know the rules. He knows that he's supposed to zip up his jeans around his aching, dripping cock. He's supposed to pretend he's not an inch away from outright begging.

He's supposed to keep his hands off himself, not only for the rest of the day, but for tomorrow and the next day. 72 hours, for a single picture. It was Noct's grand scheme – that if Prompto wants the shot enough, he can have it.

But he has to pay the consequences.

It's hard, pulling himself to his feet while he's still aching and unfinished. It's harder still to cram his cock back into his jeans and try not to watch as Noct and Gladio finish, soft groans of satisfaction like torture in his ears.

But he does it, and he zips himself up, and Ignis goes to wash his hands so that he can start preparing dinner.

Prompto picks up the camera again. He looks at the dread behemoth, and the not-quite-sunset lighting. He's done 72 hours before. He can do it again.

It's a _great_ shot.

So Prompto does his best to get on with his life. He thinks unsexy thoughts. He ignores Gladio and Noct, easy and relaxed, doing up their pants again.

He sits himself down and starts paging through the rest of his photos – easy. Just like any other night. Just like nothing happened.

There's one of Noct lounging against the hood of the Regalia. There's one of the view from the top of one of those Niff lookout towers.

And – crap. Prompto's forgotten about it, until he sees it: his own smiling face, while 1,000 cactuar needles rush toward his back.

It's not even a good picture. He's backlit, and his smile's kind of weird.

He glances toward Ignis – goes to delete it before anyone can see.

"Hey, Specs," says Noct, from over his shoulder. "He's got another one."


End file.
